


but i'd be yours, if you'd be mine

by seaqueen, wildthings



Series: 2018 Stanley Cup Champions Collection [4]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: 2018 Stanley Cup Playoffs, A lot of sex, Listen it's Cup porn, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Stanley Cup, it's just porn, they won the cup and now they're gonna celebrate, timeline does not match up with actual celebration timelines, with sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-22
Updated: 2018-06-22
Packaged: 2019-05-26 20:07:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15008435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seaqueen/pseuds/seaqueen, https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildthings/pseuds/wildthings
Summary: He’s burning hot under Alex’s hands and legs and Alex is ready to throw himself on the pyre with him. “God, Nicky.” The captain breathes against his lips when they break for breath. “Nicky. TheCup.” Alex says wonderingly, resting his forehead against the Swede’s.There was no one else that Alex would have ever passed it to first. No other hands he would have ever had touched it first, and Alex had come so very close to kissing him then and there with the Stanley Cup held high over their heads before the roaring crowd. The same fire is still burning in Nicky’s eyes, lips peeled back in a victorious snarl and Alex has to kiss him again. “Gonna bend you over Cup, and fuck you until you cry.” He whispers against his lips.





	but i'd be yours, if you'd be mine

Alex hasn’t let the Cup out of his sight in hours. He’s drunker than he can ever remember being in his life - floating on a sea of alcohol and giddy happiness that spills out of him in an everspreading, crashing wave. He wants to roar with it and so he does; wants to scream his joy and his passion to the world and let them all hear it and he will. The locker room roars back at him in a cacophony of sound - discordant voices in one joyful overlapping noise and _god_ Alex loves this team.

He shakes like a dog, champagne and beer and lord only knows what else clinging to the tips of his hair. It’s been hours and it still feels raw and new like he’s only just picked the Cup up for the first time. Like any moment he’s going to blink and it’s all going to disappear as if it never was and never will be.

But it’s not. It’s here, it’s real, and the Cup is warm and wet beneath his hands as Dima and Zhenya lift it again and Alex tips his head back and opens his mouth. The champagne is long warm by now but it tastes just as sweet as when it was cold. Zhenya nearly goes facefirst off the chair saved only by a fortuitous uncoordinated lunge by Grubi and the pair goes tumbling laughing to the ground. Alex barely gets his arms around the Cup, carefully petting it.

Dima wanders off again and disappears into the tangle of defenseman and Alex places the Cup down with all the laser focus his drunk brain can handle, and goes looking for the person he wants most right now.

It’s loud and raucous and the team’s been mostly abandoned by the coaching and support staff to their own devices now that they’re back at the hotel from the club; the celebration moved beyond the sight of cameras and media in the ballroom rented out specifically for that purpose.

It takes him a minute but Alex finds him.

Nicky’s holding court in the center of a couch, both legs sprawled in front of him and falling open. He’s still soaked, shirt clinging to his skin, and Andre’s tucked against his side talking animatedly in Swedish to a rapt looking Christian seated on Nicky’s other side. Nicky has his fingers tangled in the curls at the base of Andre’s neck and is petting him absentmindedly - but he’s looking straight at Alex’s approach. If Alex didn’t know him better he’d think he was sober, but he does and he knows, and Nicky is as drunk as Alex is.

“Move.” Alex says cheerfully to the two young Swedes, and both of them only barely scramble out of the way in time as Alex drops himself into Nicky’s lap with a knee to either side of his hips. “Backy. We did it.” He says, hovering inches away from his face. Alex licks his lips and grins.

The Swede pays no mind to the scuttling youngsters on either side of him, eyes heavy and focused on Alex as he hovers over him in a very tempting manner - like Nicky can’t help but gravitate toward him, always has, and this is no exception. Nicky’s lips curve into a broad grin in response, and his hand pushes through Alex’s hair on the back of his head to close the gap between them, hungry, ravenous lips pressing a heavy kiss to Alex’s.

Someone wolf whistles behind him but Alex pays them no attention, his entire focus narrowed down to the wildly grinning man beneath his hands looking up at him with shining eyes. Thirteen years, eleven years - more than a decade of heartbreak and of so close but not close _enough_ is all washed away. They’ve weathered storms and scaled mountains together and through it all there has always been Nicky. Beside him, broad shoulders there to carry the burden with Alex and now too to lift to the shining heights.

He’s burning hot under Alex’s hands and legs and Alex is ready to throw himself on the pyre with him. “God, Nicky.” The captain breathes against his lips when they break for breath. “ _Nicky_. The _Cup_.” Alex says wonderingly, resting his forehead against the Swede’s.

There was no one else that Alex would have ever passed it to first. No other hands he would have ever had touched it first, and Alex had come so very close to kissing him then and there with the Stanley Cup held high over their heads before the roaring crowd. The same fire is still burning in Nicky’s eyes, lips peeled back in a victorious snarl and Alex has to kiss him again. “Gonna bend you over Cup, and fuck you until you cry.” He whispers against his lips.

It’s never been easier to ignore the influence of those around them; and it’s as if a lifetime’s worth of baggage lifts off their shoulders and vanquishes itself the moment their hands are on that silver cup, the moment they see their own grinning faces smiling back at them between the names of champions past etched into the metal. Nicky sees his joy reflected in Alex, too, as he always has, but this time, it’s different. This time, it’s _everything_.

It’s everywhere they wanted to be starting from the day that Alex called out Nicky’s name in Vancouver, and while they had known tremendous pain in that time, they had the unique opportunity to grow into the men they are today at each other’s side. In hotel rooms and stadiums across several countries, they had become something more than just teammates to each other - more than _family_.

Nicky’s lips curl into a devilish grin, and he lifts a hand buried in Alex’s damp hair, fingers twisting through the greying strands. “Would like to see you _try_ ,” he challenges with the grin still lurking on his lips when he pulls Alex’s head down to kiss him again, a hungry and fierce sort of thing that sends sparks through his spine. Their names will forever be etched side by side in silver.

Alex grins into the kiss, nipping at his lips and licking away the droplets of blood it brings to the surface. “Yeah Backy? That a challenge?” He goads. “You know I like challenge.”

The attention is away from them already, everyone too drunk and joyful to really care about the fact that their captain is more or less staking his claim on his alternate in plain view of all of them. It’s also not exactly the first time, because five years into their relationship hasn’t slowed them down one bit. Alex thinks he can’t be blamed for that - when one’s partner is a man like Nicklas Backstrom, he dares _anyone_ not to be awed and eager by him at every turn. Especially _now_ , when he is Stanley Cup Champion Nicklas Backstrom.

Alex stands up, hands fisted in the front of Nicky’s shirt, and drags him to his feet.

The only reason Nicklas stumbles to his feet is because of the liquor in his system, he will later maintain. The haze doesn’t stop him from seeing Alex clearly, the beating red heart of the team, and the heavy, bruised shoulders that carried the weight of the world on them for the last fourteen years. And there’s nothing more appealing than Alex’s strong hands curled in the fabric of his shirt, pulling him up to his feet. Accepting his half-slurred challenge to bring tears to his eyes over the very thing they’ve worked so hard for.

Nicky’s hand drops unabashedly to Alex’s waistline, fingertips trailing along the skin there before slipping below the waist of his pants and gripping him through the fabric with a steady hand. “Going to make me scream, too?” He asks in a silky, slurring voice thick with his accent and likely uninterpretable to outsiders.

The captain’s breath catches as his partner’s hand closes around him, and Alex bares his teeth in a fierce grin. “Don’t I always?” He boasts, the edges of the words bitten off as Nicky twists his wrist. “Have to steal Cup. Meet you upstairs.” It’s with regret that Alex steps back, reaching down to adjust himself and flip his cock up beneath the waistband of his shorts, pushing at Nicky with both hands and urging him to go before he turns to scan the room for where the Cup had disappeared to.

It takes a second before he locates it holding court in the middle of a table with what looks like half the blue line and also Holts, who’s sitting dead in the middle of all of them majestically as Michal tells what looks like a fairly involved story judging by the arm gestures.

No one notices his approach at first until he’s pushing Dima aside to lean over the table, getting both hands on Lord Stanley and drag it towards him. “Borrow this now.” Alex says when they turn to look at him, and their eyes dart over his shoulder towards wherever Nicky must have gone. Brooks rolls his eyes heavenward and buries his face in his hands, and Alex only grins wildly. Dima and Matt eye him, but Holts and Michal aren’t even paying attention absorbed still in whatever the Czech is saying heavily accented - Alex still bets Braden is aware of all of it even with as intoxicated as he is.

“You’re going to fuck Nicky with that aren’t you.” John remarks as he leans around Matt.

“Yep.” Alex says, still aggressively cheerful and focused on the blood hot press of his cock in his pants and the knowledge that somewhere a loose, happy Nicky is waiting for him. “Bye now, try not have too much fun without me. Don’t do anything I would not do.”

“That doesn’t leave much!” Matt yells at his retreating back.

_X_

Nicky makes his way to the quiet room away from the party, nearly toppling over as he drops to a chair and strips off his shirt, green eyes jumping as they attempt to track across the room. His skin is sticky and his hair is still wet from all the champagne, but it’s hard to care about that even now.

His hand drops when Alex walks in with the Cup, and it’s the most arousing sight he’s ever laid eyes on - Alex, wasted and joyful with their life’s accomplishment heavy in his hands and with the promise of the fuck of a lifetime still ringing in his ears. He’s subconsciously stroking himself through the fabric of his pants as his eyes follow Alex in an all-consuming sort of gaze.

The sight that greets him is a glorious one - Nicky sprawled confidently shirtless and stroking himself as he watches Alex hungrily. He looks like everything Alex has ever wanted.

Alex drops the Stanley Cup onto the bed and then strips out of his shirt and throws both it and hat somewhere to the side without tearing his eyes away from his partner. “Nicky.” He rasps, pressing the heel of his hand against his cock with a groan as he looks at him. “ _Nicky_.” Alex repeats and he drops to his knees on the floor with a thump between the center’s sprawled thighs. Both palms press to the muscular lines of him and it’s an uncoordinated attempt at first to go for his pants where they’re plastered wet and sodden to his legs.

He finally gets them undone and lifts Nicky’s hips himself to pull them down. Alex has to stop and restrain himself when he realizes Nicky is wearing nothing beneath.

The Swede’s lips curl upward in a smug smirk, one hand returning to its previous position once he’s rid of the pants and the other moves to Alex’s damp, messy hair, the silver and black strands familiar between his fingers. “You look so fucking hot right now, Alex.” He mutters silkily, though there’s a slur to his words from the beginnings of the partying. “Would have let you have me any way you want it when you look at me like that.”

His head tips back instinctively when Nicky grips his hair, laughing blue eyes staring up at the blond. Alex leans forward to press a trail of kisses along the slight curve of Nicky’s belly, turns his head to nip at the inside of his wrist where he’s palming himself. Alex gently nuzzles the juncture of his thigh, inhaling the musky sweet scent of him just barely gone sour with the amount of alcohol they’re both drenched in; then drags the tip of his nose along the hard length of him and lips at the tip of his cock. Then, with a gleeful and challenging smile, Alex swallows him down in one swift move, nose pressed against the tight blond curls.

Nicky’s breath hitches as Alex’s lips move down the full length of his cock, and his free hand moves to the side - whatever he can reach to curl his fist into as he unleashes a guttural moan. The hand in Alex’s hair tightens as his back arches slightly, hips moving toward Alex reflexively at the contact. Swedish and English swears alike fall off his tongue in a symphony of profanities born of pleasure, neither the alcohol nor the recent victory making it any easier to hold back.

Alex’s only answer is to withdraw, to lick along the vein on the underside and watch as Nicky’s thighs tremble, just barely twitching under the steady onslaught of Alex’s mouth. He takes the head in his mouth; sinks deeper and gently scrapes his teeth over the shaft careful not to apply more than just the ghost of pressure. Nicky’s hands in his hair tighten even more, a blinding starburst of pleasure-pain that has Alex groaning long and low from deep in his chest, and Nicky mumbles incoherently to lapse out of English.

He pulls off entirely, making Nicky whine low in his throat as he mutters incoherent pleas that Alex recognizes as _please, please Alex, come on, please_ in mangled Swedish; and draws a full breath before he sinks down again taking Nicky’s length further and further until it hits the back of his throat and Alex’s nose presses into warm sweaty skin and curls. That knocks the last of the verbal communication out of the Swede, who just pants and keeps his grip. Sweat gathers at Alex’s brow as he breathes in through his nose and -

Alex withdraws entirely, rocking back onto his heels and smirking insolently.

A growl of frustration brews in Nicky’s throat as the cool air replaces the warmth of Alex’s lips, breathy and desperate and on edge for everything Alex has done up until this point. He slurs a series of foul words in Alex’s native tongue, something along the lines of _you filthy, taunting animal_ , the words thick with his own accent in the loss of total control of his mind and body. Nicky leans down to push the soaking pants off the rest of the way, sitting bare and _bothered_ for Alex. And as upset as he is, there’s still something positively intoxicating about that stupid smirk plastered on Alex’s lips, and his hand resumes a lazy stroke as he watches his lover bask in what he’s done.

“Well, are you going to fuck me or just watch?”

There’s a heavy lidded stare painted on the Russian’s face where he watches Nicky from beneath his lashes. “Promised, didn’t I?” Alex says, still smirking. He rolls to his feet with more grace than he should have, strictly speaking, given the amount of alcohol consumed. And when he dips into the pocket of his jeans he comes up with a travel packet of lube, and dances it across the backs of his knuckles. He tosses it on the bed beside the Cup and then reaches to wrap blunt fingers around the slim line of Nicky’s wrist. “Save that.” He orders, batting Nicky’s hand away from his own cock.

Alex hauls Nicky to his feet by that grip, and then manhandles him until he can give him a push and send him sprawling across the comforter of the big king bed. It only takes a second to strip out of his own trousers and then he looms over the blond; cocky smirk still stretching wide.

Nicky raises his eyebrows at the packet, but he isn’t surprised in the least that Alex has been toting it around in his pocket this whole time. If ever there were a time for a spontaneous fuck, Nicky is glad Alex chose now to be prepared because Nicky certainly wasn’t when he got dressed this afternoon at the Bellagio. His green eyes move over Alex as he strips, hungry to touch and kiss every part of him that he exposes, and though the Swede normally thrives over control, there’s no one else he would love to have pushing him around than Alex.

The center moves to prop himself up on a palm, the other hand reaching to wrap around Alex’s erect cock. “Want you so bad, Alex,” he murmurs, his voice low and heavy in the air between them. “Looks like you want me, too.” It’s Nicky’s turn to let the smug satisfaction slip onto his lips, barely an echo of the joyous, beaming looks they exchanged with each other on the ice not long ago.

“On the Cup.” Alex says roughly, hands falling to the Swede’s hips as he helps him to the position Alex wants him. Bends him over it just as he’d boasted he would, on his knees and elbows flush with the gleaming silver. He smooths a hand down his side admiring the picture he makes - the two things in the world he wants most of all. “Should take a picture you look so pretty.” He remarks, slapping his ass lightly and watching rapt at the ghost of redness it draws to the surface and the way a shiver races from crown to calf down Nicky’s spine.

Still smirking, he kneels behind him and then leans in to bite at the base of his spine and then lathe it with a kiss, before Alex spreads him open. He admires for a second, overcome by the entirety of all of it - from the _Cup, they won the CUP_ to Nicky’s hips hitching unconsciously searching for friction against his cock from the slick metal surface to the coloring bruises at the base of his neck from their brief disappearance together in the locker room. “Fuck, Backy.” Alex says, briefly overwhelmed, before he leans down to lick a hot stripe over his hole.

Nicky’s eyes close as they roll back, teeth planting firmly down on his lower lip as he bites back a primal sound rolling in the depths of his throat. For a man who likes to be in control, this is a rare moment of pleasure giving it over to Alex, letting him do as he pleases instead of the demands he usually barks out when their clothes come off - although, really, it’s no different from their professional relationship, either. And being bent over the Cup - _their_ Cup - with Alex driving the play is something that he’s considerably turned on by in this moment.

Alex’s tongue is hot against his sensitive skin, breath warm as it touches the skin his tongue can’t reach. Nicky’s body stiffens for a moment and then relaxes, his hips shifting again as his own cock fails to find purchase on anything other than the worn, etched metal and smooth rings of the trophy.

He traces the shape of him with the tip of his tongue, feeling Nicky twitch and quiver as he does; teasing his way in and working to coax that desperate keen he loves so much from his lover’s throat. But it’s not until Alex stiffens his tongue and presses into the tight heat of his partner’s body that Nicky’s control slips again; that he lets out a soft broken noise and pants _“Alex,_ ” low and pleading. Alex laughs - a huff of warm air against where he lays open and vulnerable for Alex. Trusting.

He’s tight - their sex life has taken a back seat since very early on in their playoffs run and it’s been a long time since they’ve had time and energy for more than half hearted hands and mouths before they go to sleep or in the shower - and Alex works his way in gradually. Teasing and nuzzling, dipping in and out, licking and mouthing at him to get him slick and Nicky relaxes for him bit by bit and slides back into broken fragments of Swedish as he scrambles between pressing back against Alex’s mouth or forward against the Cup. Alex fumbles for the lube, barely gets it open and spreads a little on his fingers, and moves until he slides one finger in him and he licks around it before carefully easing a second in.

It elicits a moan from deep in Nicky’s chest, coupled with a breath of relief at the contact; he feels like he’s being tormented with the lack of real action being taken since that breathy promise what feels like centuries ago. He’s eager to rush ahead to the fulfillment of that challenge issued earlier today, anxious and impatient but enjoying the moment nonetheless. They’re Stanley Cup _Champions._ Over a decade of heartache and imaginary parades and now it’s all _real_ , and he has Alex Ovechkin wanting to fuck him on top of it all. He couldn’t have imagined it any better than this.

Nicky breathes heavily in a mixture of pleasure and adrenaline-fueled exhaustion, his head lifting to look back at Alex over his shoulder. “More.”

The gentle exploration turns more violent - he rocks his fingers in and out of Nicky as the Swede goads him, then slides in a third and reaches for more lube as Nicky moans. Slick fingers stretch him until Alex crooks and finds the center of Nicky’s pleasure - rubs the pads of his fingers against it and smirks in smug satisfaction as Nicky yells. He rubs until Nicky is wailing, begging without words, grinding his hips for friction against his own aching cock against the Cup. Alex presses kisses to the base of his spine again, his free hand digging into the meat of his hip as he works Nicky open.

Alex draws back and withdraws, dribbling more lube over Nicky’s tailbone and slicking his own hand before reaching for himself. He moves up, kissing the back of the Swede’s neck as Nicky’s head hangs forward and he struggles to catch his breath as Alex covers him with the weight of his body. Alex teases himself and Nicky both, rubbing the slick head of his cock over his entrance in a maddening rhythm that provides no real measure of relief, and he watches in delight as Nicky tenses more and more. Nicky stays rather impressively still, doesn’t move his hips despite how he’s all but vibrating beneath Alex’s hands with the need. Alex gives his hip an approving squeeze, and then finally eases himself into his lover with a steady thrust.

The center’s patience is wearing thin as Alex teases him with minimum contact. He knows that the moment the captain presses on is the moment he loses all control, so he stays still and patient despite the nagging impatience he feels internally. His patience is rewarded with a brief warning in the form of Alex’s hand on his hip before he pushes through, and Nicklas releases a loud, throaty sound at the way Alex’s cock fills him. It’s been far too long.

When his partner moves, Nicky feels the cool metal beneath his own throbbing cock, smooth and slicked as his hips move to Alex’s rhythm. “ _Fuck_ , you feel so good Alex,” he murmurs between the collisions of Alex’s hips to the curve of Nicky’s ass. “But you’re going to have to fuck me a lot _harder_ than that if you want me to _cry._ ”

Alex hisses out a breath, eyes gleaming at the uttered challenge, going heavy lidded and smirky. Nicky stretches beneath him, all heavy muscle and delicate grace, and all _his_ as Alex buries himself in a deep slow slide until he can go no further, the crest of his hips flush.

They have always been good at this - their chemistry no less potent in the bedroom as it is on the ice - and Alex draws back, the drag of Nicky tight and hot and perfect, and then snaps his hips forward with all the brutal coiled power of his body. Nicky wails and his hands scrabble for purchase on the comforter of the bed as he’s driven into the Stanley Cup’s surface. The feel of him, the sound of his broken pleasure and the way he fights back to give as good as he gets; moving back to meet Alex’s thrusts, and the way the air all but shimmers with the needy want for one another is nearly enough to undo Alex right then and there.

He cants his hips, pressing one broad palm flat on the small of Nicky’s back to trap him tight against the Cup, changing his angle just enough that he knows he’s found what he’s after when Nicky opens his mouth and _yells._ “Yeah, I’m love you best.” Alex croons. “No one know you like me, make you feel so good Nicky. So perfect, you and me, can do anything take on world. But no one make you feel as good as me.”

Alex’s words do little for his self control, the crescendo of pleasure becoming deafening as the forward’s thrusts combine with the words pouring out of his mouth like a symphony composed just for him. Nicky throws his head back in bliss as he feels his patience, his _control_ , wearing thin with a smattering of profane words in three languages echo through the room from Alex’s actions - some of them mixed in with Alex’s name or nicknames.

There’s a deep hunger, brewing in Alex’s chest. Nicky is the architect of so much of the structure of Alex’s life since the day he walked across a stage in Vancouver, cherub cheeked and bashful, to take a jersey so like Alex’s own. From those days to their first games and the goals and points that would follow in a steady landslide to a love that spans continents and leagues and every beat of their hearts. They _fit_ , in a way that only hockey has ever slotted so seamlessly into Alex’s life.

Nicky shudders under his hands, a full body motion that Alex knows so very well. Language is beyond him now, and Alex knows he isn’t much better with the tangled mess of Russian that’s dropped out of anything resembling sense. He’s pushing back against Alex’s grip, the feel of him coiled tighter and tighter with every snap of the captain’s hips driving him against the Cup again and again and knocking a high keening noise from the strangled depths of his throat. “ _Nicky_.” He breathes, and Nicky comes with a _wail_ , hands knotted in the sheets and every tendon and muscle of his body goes tight.

The clench of him is too much for Alex to bear; and he tumbles off the side of the cliff with him with the sound of Nicky’s name on his lips.

Alex is sure his vision whites out for a moment - the rest of the world beyond where they’re joined ceasing to exist for the span of a few heartbeats. He feels absolutely spent; totally wrung out and every muscle of his body weak and with no more consistency than pudding. Alex collapses as if his strings have been cut, just barely catching himself on his hands on the Cup as he shakes apart. He blankets the center with his body, both of their chests heaving as they struggle to catch their breath.

Reluctantly, the captain eases back from his partner, smoothing a quick apologetic hand down his spine as he slips out of him. Nicky is boneless and putty when Alex reaches for him; he goes down easily under the rearrangement of Alex’s hands until he’s positioned how Alex wants him tucked against the side of the now white streaked Stanley Cup. “We stay here.” Alex says. “Not sure your legs work.” He adds smugly, fitting himself to the curve of Nicky’s back and trapping him between the Cup and Alex again before he reaches for the sheets.

The center is content to be between the captain and his Cup, quietly glad that there’s such a loud party going on outside to drown out their time with the silver trophy in tow. “S’okay, can be out the rest of the summer with this lower body injury.” He jokes, “No one left to beat.” They’re _champions_ , and Nicky still has a hard time processing it. All that hard work, all the heartache, and it was finally _theirs._ He never thought he’d be here, joking about injuries in postcoital bliss with Alex with the Cup in bed with them. _Fuck_.

He noses closer and tucks his face against the sweaty curve of his lover’s neck, making a happy noise of contentment. “Maybe reoccurring injury, yeah?” Alex says slyly.

Nicky laughs freely, running his fingers through Alex’s hair softly. “For Stanley Cup Champion Alex Ovechkin? Anything.” Cause it’s the Cup. Because he would rather have sore hips all summer than deal with another heartbreaking postseason. Because this summer would be the best one yet in eleven years.

The blond’s delight shifts coyly into a smirk, and he pulls away to look at Alex properly. “So, how long until I can fuck you like that?”

Alex laughingly buries Nicky’s face in the pillow.

_X_

The general level of intoxication on the plane is lower than it had been the night before, but everyone has laid down a comfortable level of drunkenness before the wheels even leave the ground.

Alex holds court at the front of the plane, the trophies spread on the table as he drinks and thumbs through social media. Nicky’s claimed the spot beside him, sprawled loose limbed and happy with his head propped up in Alex’s lap. The Russian lifts the bottle they’re sharing from Nicky's hands to take long drink, throat working as he swallows.

Nicky wishes they weren’t in the company of the entire team, that he could lay his hands on every inch of Alex - sink his teeth into his lover’s skin and revel in the beast he becomes at the touch. He’s hungry and his veins pulse with a _need_ that neither the Cup nor the bottle in Alex’s hands can satisfy. Perhaps if he were sober, it wouldn’t feel so urgent.

The center lifts from his position, shifting to straddle the winger’s lap with a knee on either side of his hips, tired muscles pulling at his joints. “Championship looks good on you, captain.” Nicky slurs, voice low and quiet as he leans in to capture Alex’s lips with his own.

The hand not wrapped around the bottle’s neck drops to the back of Nicky’s, and then smooths down the long line of his spine appreciatively before coming to rest at the swell of his ass. “Everything look good on me.” Alex boasts, still grinning when they draw apart. “Best body, best fashion sense, best _everything_.” He adds gleefully before he leans up to where Nicky’s hovering over him looking down, nipping at the places on the center’s neck already starting to bruise in the shape of Alex’s teeth.

Nicky can’t help the bark of laughter at Alex’s blatant arrogance, but it quickly evaporates into a soft hum in reaction to the teeth against his skin. “You’re lucky arrogance looks good on you, too,” he mutters, eyes closing briefly to soak in the moment. “Know what looks best on you?” He asks, but the question is rhetorical, a carefully calculated step in a grander plan. “When you wear _nothing_.” He answers, his hands slipping beneath the fabric of Alex’s shirt to brush against his warm skin.

“Told you. Everything.” The Russians says smugly.

He shivers at the touch to his overheated skin, and the hand on Nicky’s back slides under the waistband of his shorts until Alex can get a firm grip on his ass. “ _Nicky_.” Alex says, mock scandalized. “Think of the _children_.”

The blond grins, fingertips roaming his skin beneath the fabric as he pretends to consider what Alex has said. “They could use a little scarring.” One of his shoulders shrugs, and he pulls his hands away abruptly, retreating from his comfortable position on Alex’s lap. “But maybe we save their eyes.” He sways a little as he stands, a mixture of the alcohol in his blood and the movement of the plane, but a hand reaches for the wall to stabilize him as he heads for the lavatory toward the front of the plane.

Feeling a little like he's been hit by a truck, Alex sits dumbfounded in his seat for a minute watching Nicky go. He looks as drunk as Alex feels - hair gone awry from Alex's hands, flushed and pink cheeked with happiness and arousal.

Alex picks up the Cup as he goes to follow.

In for a penny, in for a pound.

Nicky's sprawled against the wall when Alex gets the door open, clever fingers stroking himself teasingly through the fabric of his pants. Alex wedges the Cup between his feet and struggles to get the rest of his bulk into the space and shut the door. By the time he does he's pressed against Nicky from shoulder to ankle and can't say he minds in the least. A wiggle of his hips to stop the soap dispenser from digging into his back grinds them together and he groans.

The Swede watches his captain worm his way into the small space, and he’s amused at the shuffle until he can feel the warmth of Alex’s body and the firm muscle pressed against him. The noise he emits is softer than Alex’s, but confesses pleasure all the same. This space wasn’t made for _one_ oversized hockey player, let alone two _and_ a Cup, but he’s too drunk and happy and _excited_ to care.

Nicky’s hands drift down the curve of Alex’s hips, fingertips feathering along his waistband along the way. His lips drop to Alex’s neck as he lifts a knee to give them more room to press against each other, and he forgoes all self restraint to leave his mark on Alex’s warm skin.

They’re more or less straddling the Cup at this point, and any movement from either of them just drives them to rub some part of them together. The space is hot and stuffy and there is barely room to breathe; but Alex can’t remember a time he was more incandescently happy. Nicky’s busy with teeth and tongue and Alex slots into the space left for him as he hikes a knee; grinding their cocks together as he shifts and pins Nicky against the wall. Hands scrabble at the thin shorts the center’s wearing until Alex can get a hand inside to close around him.

“ _Mine_.” Alex pants against his neck. “Both mine, and never gonna let go.”

Nicklas moans low in his throat as Alex takes him in hand. “All yours, Alex,” he agrees in a breath hot against Alex’s ear, hips arching slightly in the limited space out of reflex to having him so close. He’s up on his toes, his weight held suspended by Alex’s bulk trapping him against the wall. The Russian’s hand is steady and sure; a master by now in Nicky’s body and reactions. Everything feels loose at the edges, weightless and drifting, and as if the only feeling in the world is the drag of Alex’s hand on his cock. Nicky keens softly, and Alex leans up to kiss him thoroughly.

He gets both hands down the back of Alex’s ridiculous leggings and a double handful of muscle, urging him closer and hitching his knee higher to spread his legs and allow Alex to be seated more firmly between them. Neither of them have particularly much of a trigger at this point - they’ve been riding the edge of perpetual arousal since the first moment Alex’s hands closed around the Cup and haven’t looked back since. Nicky shoves at the fabric bunching around Alex’s waist, and now freed Alex takes both of them in one broad palm.

He’d be embarrassed by how quickly he comes after that, if Alex didn’t take barely more than a handful of strokes more to follow.

Alex lifts his face from Nicky’s shoulder, catching his breath and relaxing into the creeping sense of bonelessness. “Think you need change of pants.” He says smugly, glancing down momentarily towards the now stained front of Nicky’s. He closes the distance to kiss him again briefly and then shifts slightly around him to reach for the sink to wash his hands.

The Swede hums contently, leaning forward to nuzzle his face against the crook of Alex’s neck as he washes his hands around him. “Good thing I brought your favorite shorts.” He says idly, shifting to readjust his existing shorts in order to prepare to face the team even if just in passing to grab a change. He listens for a moment to the chatter in the seats, and is satisfied when all seems well and undisturbed by their spontaneous whirl in the bathrooms. He slips out of the bathroom after wedging his way out from under Alex, slipping mostly unnoticed past their teammates as he digs through his bag for the shorts he called Alex’s favorite - a black spandex pair he nicked from Alex the last time he was over.

There’s a cat call when Alex emerges from the bathroom, and the captain’s smirk is entirely smug. “You’re making the rest of us look bad Cap!” TJ yells from where he’s on the floor leaning back against Braden’s legs, the goaltender engaged in some kind of spirited conversation with Philip beside him. “Save some christening for the rest of us.” There’s a roarous round of laughter from the rest of the plane, and Alex saunters back towards his seat and the table still cradling the Cup. Nicky’s already there, holding a scrap of fabric that barely deserves the name, and Alex slaps him on the ass, enthralled as always by the way it jiggles under his hand, before throwing himself onto the seat.

Nicky could change here, he ponders to himself, but although everyone has seen him naked on the plane, few have seen him like _this_ , so he retreats to the bathroom again after retrieving the shorts and allowing Alex his moment of admiration. When he emerges again, he’s sporting a snug black tee and even tighter spandex shorts, perfectly on display for his lover. It isn’t uncharacteristic of him, not when the cameras and media are prevented from capturing these moments, and it’s nothing for the team to ogle at as he makes his way back down the aisle to plop down next to Alex.

Alex tosses an arm over Nicky’s lap and slides until he’s tucked comfortably against his side; fingers running idly up and down the exposed line of the inside of his thigh. “These mine.” He says laughingly. “Look better on you.”

Nicky grins smugly, lifting an eyebrow at the heap of a man melting into his lap and side. “Thought everything looked good on you.” He teases, lifting a hand to comb idly through Alex’s hair, brushing through the scattered greys.

“ _You_ look better on me.” Alex retorts, eyes half lidded as Nicky finger combs his hair - if he were a cat, he would be purring. Around them, the ruckus has died down to a dull roar as the long night and the party begins to catch up with their teammates, and Alex can start to feel himself go heavy limbed and ready for sleep knowing it’s all going to immediately kick back up into high gear as soon as they hit tarmac at Dulles. He yawns, shifting his weight for a better position on Nicky’s thigh as he pushes his head against Nicky’s hand demandingly for attention.

The center is more than ready to give Alex the attention the winger deserves when he catches a Swedish chirp coming from the section containing their raucous sons and the ensuing radiating smugness about it - Andre, Tom, and Christian. He carefully pulls Alex upright again, climbing over the seats to calmly smother Andre with the weight of his body while his arm wraps around the younger man’s neck. Laughter bursts from the observers as Nicky is tipped over the seat, spandex-clad ass in the air as Andre’s legs kick out on either side of him, and the younger Swede finally cries uncle just as Nicky gets a good hold over his head and torso.

Alex protests as he’s moved aside, grumpy as he resettles in the new position Nicky’s left him in to go stalk the misbehaving children. Burky goes down like a sack of flour under Nicky’s greater weight; both of them disappearing over the arm of the couch as he pins him down. For a moment Alex is utterly captivated by the sprawl of Andre’s legs to either side of Nicky’s hips; framing the perfect curve of his ass as Nicky manhandles him down to the couch. Clad in those very tight, very short, spandex - it is an _excellent_ view. Alex is not the only one looking, and he waggles his eyebrows lewdly in Lars’s direction, much to the Dane’s amusement.

But with Nicky distracted, he needs a different spooning partner.

Blond curls frayed, Nicky returns to his quiet seat next to the captain, glaring daggers of warning with a smile on his lips at the young winger. He frowns briefly when he lays his eyes back on the Russian, annoyed - for only the slightest moment - that he’s been replaced by a shiny silver cup. Alex’s limbs are wrapped contently around it, and if he hadn’t already tossed a chirp Nicky’s way about replacing him with more cuddly partners, he might’ve thought that the captain was asleep already.

It’s easy and natural to slide in behind Alex, settling in like a puzzle piece as he fills the valley of his hips with the curve of Alex’s ass and pushes his stout torso against the gentle slope of his lover’s back. His arms wrap around Alex’s waist and pull him close, face nuzzling into the back of Alex’s neck and shoulders. The Cup may be Alex’s preferred bedmate for now, but Nicky will always be close behind to warm him during the cool summer nights.

Alex makes a happy sound at the warmth of Nicky at his back, smashing him against the curved surface of the Cup and trapping him between both bulks. It’s the easiest thing in the world then, with Nicky’s steady breathing at the back of his neck and the warm bulwark curve of him between Alex and the rest of the world, to close his eyes.

_X_

The rumble of the engines changes pitch, and gradually Alex blinks awake. He’d tangentially aware of the movement of team around them as everyone shifts through the motions of righting themselves to reenter the world from the tiny encapsulated space that is the team plane where they have done nothing but _exist_ together and reach higher levels of euphoria that bounces from person to person like an echo chamber. Nicky is still dead to the world with his face buried in the seat, and Alex smiles to look at him and the riotous mess of curls still standing oddly on end from where he’d been running his hands through it.

Alex drops a hand to his hip, sliding slightly lower and then dipping the tips of his fingers beneath where the hem of his small spandex shorts strain around the powerful muscles of his thighs. “Nicky.” He murmurs, dipping until he’s stroking the soft inside of his thigh. “Gotta wake up for pants, or everyone at airport gonna get a show.” He teases.

The center shifts in his half state of sleep, reaching for Alex blindly to pull him close. “Would be best show.” He mumbles, still not fully awake nor willing to wake up entirely. He can already feel the pounding headache as the liquor begins to leave his system and claim the wreckage left behind on his body. “Just a little longer.” He pleads, burying his face in whatever part of Alex he can reach.

“Mmmm for _me_ .” Alex says laughingly. “Everyone might appreciate is true, but doubt _you_ do.” He trails his fingertips back and forth along his thigh and tantalizingly higher to caress the juncture of his hip. “Wouldn’t you rather save for me?” He teases, sliding to his knees on the floor of the plane and moving to press a kiss over Nicky’s surgery scar where his shirt has slid up.

Nicky shifts under his touch, a soft whine escaping his lips. He pretends to think for a moment, easily distracted by the sight of Alex on his knees in front of him. “Mm… yes, I would. But you have to earn it. No free shows.” He jokes, finally moving to reach for a pair of pants, but he doesn’t pull away from Alex.

Alex pulls out the bottle of rum and shakes it tantalizingly his direction. Around them the team is stirring and getting ready to disembark, gathering their belongings and waking other sleeping teammates; but Alex’s attention is on his partner. “Come on, we go home shower and then team have party.” He leans in, close enough that his lips brush against the shell of the center’s ear; voice dipping an octave. “And maybe your turn fuck me before we go, yeah?”

The warm green eyes light up at the offer, and he snatches the bottle from Alex’s hands before drinking generously from the mouth of the bottle. “Not maybe.” he replies, shaking the neck of the bottle at Alex. He reaches for a pair of pants draped across the back of the seat, tugging them on half-heartedly. Had his partner not made the promise he did just before Nicky rose to his feet, there would have been a very visible pout settled on his lips. Instead, his eyes wander to the winger with a knowing sort of grin tugging at the edges of his lips.

Alex has no plans on stopping drinking anytime soon and it doesn't seem like Nicky does either. Not with the Cup in their grasp and their hands forever; every disappointment and every heartbreak stripped away. His grin is utterly smug. “More than one way to put mark on Cup.” The captain says cheerfully. He gives an absentminded pat to Nicky's hip as he wanders away to collect first his shirt wherever it had disappeared to and then both of their bags, before he returns to a now fully dressed Nicky.

“Carry with me?” Alex asks. “Off plane?”

Nicky gives his captain a nod and a slim smile, waiting for the plane to stop completely and the team to settle into gathering their belongings. When Alex lifts the cup, Nicky is sure to stay nearby, hand reaching for the neck of it as the team cheers behind them. Nicky’s eyes wander to Alex, to his radiant, blinding happiness in the light of their accomplishment, of eleven years together spent in agony over reaching this moment, and the center feels a vibrant pride swelling in his chest and rattling his bones; it’s finally _theirs_ , and victory looks just as sweet on Alex’s face as it did the first time they won together eleven years ago.

Alex feels like he could crack his chest open and let it all flow out - as if he bares his still beating heart to the world and every wisp of emotion that cannot be contained. It’s every dream and every hope he’s ever had twisted up in one singular moment; encapsulated by thirty-five pounds of silver.

“Hey Nicky.” He says, grinning with wild abandon as he hoists the Cup up and Nicky comes to grab the other end of it as they prepare to descend the gangway onto the tarmac, and for the celebration that won’t end for days. “Whadya say we get married?”

Nicky’s answering smile is blinding.


End file.
